


Black Dog

by HoloXam



Series: Big D [1]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Binge Drinking, Character Study, Depression, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-06
Updated: 2018-02-06
Packaged: 2019-03-14 10:20:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13588029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HoloXam/pseuds/HoloXam
Summary: “Pleasedo as I say, Crowley,” Aziraphale demands, and can at least reassure himself that if any of this - this - thisfeelingshines through, it has no chance of permeating the veil of boozy apathy that Crowley has drawn around himself.Somehow the reassurance is not comforting at all.[In which Crowley feels bad and Aziraphale makes tea.]





	Black Dog

**Author's Note:**

> This thing has been haunting me for months. Now it can haunt you too, if you let it.

Aziraphale understands Crowley. That is not to say he agrees or approves or follows every trail of the demon's train wreck of a consciousness, but he _knows_ him. He has an expert grasp on how he functions (or how he does not function, depending). He may not always understand _why_ Crowley does what he does, but he can usually see any reaction a mile off. Which is why he really should have seen this coming. It is, after all, a common variation of the theme that is Crowley.

A customary frown, replacing the customary wry smile.

No phone calls, and when Aziraphale checks in every once in a while, Crowley is either drunk, or asleep, or both. He does not run affectionate fingers along the hood of his car, and when he speaks, there is either detachment or panic lurking in his voice. But it will pass in good time, as it usually does. Aziraphale does not meddle, does not step into unknown territory.

He pours the drinks, he reads his books, he holds dark hair back on late nights, and sighs to himself, waiting for the episode to pass.

* * *

“Are you trying to live out some 90’s rock star fantasy, my dear? You certainly look the part,” Aziraphale observes dryly, as he leans his shoulder on the doorframe to Crowley's bedroom, crossing his arms. Crowley is glaring at him from the bed where he is nursing a hangover, a cigarette, and a glass of wine. His eyes are bloodshot and swollen, and shine feverishly with the way they reflect the light coming from the hallway.

“I'm only here because you asked me to, you know. Not that I necessarily expected you to be up, dressed, and sober, at three in the afternoon, but I was going for at least one out of three,” says Aziraphale.

Crowley looks at his hands, and finds them both occupied. He swirls the wine around in the glass a few times and then swallows all of it, before setting the glass aside on the night stand. Then he stands up and snaps his fingers on his now free hand, while taking a final drag on the cigarette in the other. He puts it out, and turns fully dressed to Aziraphale, his swollen, yellow eyes now safely hidden once more.

“Up. Dressed. Two outta three ain't bad, 's they ssssay.”

Aziraphale just looks at him, slightly amused. Then that utterly depressing frown settles over Crowley's features, as he approaches Aziraphale and the door. “Did I call you...?”

“You did, indeed. During the, er, melancholy stage.”

“Hm. Took advantage, did you? Got me naked, and left me to wake up on my own?” He pokes a finger at Aziraphale's chest, and leans his head to the side, with the slightest shadow of a smile playing at his features. “Tha'ssss _mean,_ Aziraphale, you know that?”

_“Must_ you be this drunk, Crowley?” asks Aziraphale, and grabs around the offending hand.

“Drunk, or asleep. Two outta three.”

“Following that logic, you could go naked, then.” This earns him a laugh, and a flash of yellow eyes above the frame of dark glasses.

“You’d like that, hm?”

“You’re equally frustrating in whatever state of undress, but a patch of sobriety could _potentially_ work wonders on your character. I seem to recall an incident-”

“Sssspare me your anecdotes,” Crowley snarls, tears his hand from Aziraphale’s touch, and pushes past him through to the hall.

Aziraphale counts to ten. Twice. He gestures at the window, and it dutifully swings open, before he leaves the bedroom behind. He finds Crowley in the kitchen, where he is leaning his hip heavily on the counter, and looking half fascinated, half defeated at his hands.

“Maybe you've got a point...” he says, and Aziraphale stops again, three steps away, unsure of whether or not to invade Crowley’s personal space, and, if he were to, whether he wants to embrace him or slap him across the face. Maybe he wants to simply grab him around the shoulders and shake until they both come apart and scream things that later cannot be unsaid. To be safe, he keeps a distance, and turns to fill the sleek electric kettle.

“A point? I have several. This one being?” he says, and puts the kettle to boil, scanning the white, clinical kitchen for signs of teabags. Crowley shifts slightly, one hand sliding through his hair, failing to mend its messy state.

“You said something about evil holding the seed- … evil being self-destructive,” he says in a low voice.

Aziraphale nods and steps closer, closeting his inner protests. He puts a hand on Crowley's bony shoulder and squeezes slightly. It is disturbingly cold to the touch.

“Evil _deeds,_ yes. Evil in general. _You,_ on the other hand, has always struck me as remarkably self-sustaining.”

Crowley pushes his glasses up into his hair, and looks at Aziraphale. There is something haunted in his eyes that Aziraphale doesn’t know what to do with. These things are usually hidden behind glasses and crude words and, in particular, physical brick walls of a Mayfair flat, and Aziraphale desperately wants to get back on the familiar side of those, preferably with Crowley in tow.

“My dear,” he says, “You're freezing. Why don't you take a shower, get some heat in that reptilian corporation of yours, and we'll go for a walk, then? Bit of air couldn't hurt. Even if you insist on being plastered.”

Crowley leans into the touch of Aziraphale’s hand, and produces some strained sounds that the keen ear _might_ interpret along the lines of _blessed, bloody angel_ , but whether _that_ serves as insult or compliment in the context is debatable. In any case, Aziraphale chooses to wear an unkeen ear and let it slide, because he really has better things to do than let himself be insulted by a drunk demonic presence. In a sudden fit of impatience he wraps his arms around Crowley and tugs him close, stroking him down the spine in an attempt to rub some warmth into him.

Aziraphale can be _very_ patient if it suits him. But somehow now, with this rather inarticulate icicle pressed to his chest, something in him threatens to _boil._ How on _Earth_ did he become so involved?

    _“Please_ do as I say, Crowley,” he demands, and can at least reassure himself that if any of this - this - this _feeling_ shines through, it has no chance of permeating the veil of boozy apathy that Crowley has drawn around himself.

Somehow the reassurance is not comforting at all.

* * *

Reluctantly, Crowley disentangles himself from the angelic embrace and staggers down the hall. He sobers up with a wince after undressing, and stands shivering in the cold white bathroom. His own face is staring at him from above the sink, and he wonders if his cheeks were always this hollow, and if his eyes always looked so... Desperate. He grimaces, and the mirror does the same. He looks down on himself. There are bruises on him, big and blue and purple, and he has no idea how they have come about.

_Must've fallen over at some point._

Now that his intoxication-induced numbness is removed, everything has become bright and sharp around the edges. Too much high definition. It's uncomfortable. The whiteness burns in his mind like a smiting, and the icy tiles beneath his feet are doing much of the same thing. He hurries into the shower and closes his eyes tight, turning the water on. That, at least, is the right temperature. He waves his hand at the light switch, and the room is engulfed in a soothing darkness. He slips down to the floor and leans his head back towards the wall, letting the warm water wash over him.

Sobering up was a mistake. Reality is pressing from all sides and demanding attention, demanding _choice,_ and he should dress in a suit, but that would mean actually _imagining_ a _suit,_ and not throwing up, but _smiling. Talking, pretending. Moving._

He wants to not think. He wants to not feel. He wants to not move. He wants to sleep. Again, and forever. A tiny but piercing voice tells him how to sum this feeling up in one sentence. He shushes it. At least he can still lie to himself, if only a little.

Something growls. Crowley hugs his knees close and leans his forehead on them.

* * *

The kettle clicks off and Aziraphale waits for the water to cool a little before pouring it into a thermos. He leans on the counter, and tries to remember the last time he witnessed a Major Emotional, er... Episode. Not counting the entire fourteenth century, the witch hunts, and the world wars, or the business back in 1990, because Crowley never had the stomach for anything involving either of the Four or extreme cruelty, and only reacted accordingly, even if he tended to take it a bit too personal.

Aziraphale remembers running into him in a bar, during this war or another, finding him in alarmingly bitter spirits. The seven drinks Aziraphale poured in him hadn’t even _helped;_ Crowley had just grown more and more sullen and sulky.

    _“Choice,”_ he had finally spat, _“I_ gave _them that. And then they choose thissss!”_

And then he left, before Aziraphale could even begin to say _ineffable_.

There always seemed to be some _reason_ for Crowley’s moods, a reason to make them understandable and, perhaps, excusable?

Aziraphale removes the teabag from the thermos and ponders the cleverly arranged waste sorting system beneath the sink. He can’t for the life of him imagine Crowley ever actually using a bin to get rid of rubbish rather than just snapping it out of existence with a flick of his fingers, much less giving any thought to _recycling._

… The slept through nineteenth century, though. Aziraphale has never truly been fooled by Crowley’s insistence that such an extravagant and, honestly, unnecessary display of sloth was purely for the enjoyment of it. Well. (He deposits the teabag in the bin labeled _organic.)_ Unlike now, there must have been _some_ reason for it.

This current behavior, though, it is quite frankly _unreasonable._ To Aziraphale, the 21st century is just as bad as the rest of them, but the world excels in _not_ having ended. They have seen to that. There is no World War III to deal with, not yet at least, and it is a normal time for a demon to go about doing admittedly frustrating things with phones and TV and politicians, having dinner with Aziraphale, and taking nice long strolls in the park, not for being drunk five days a week without even so much as _enjoying_ it.

_What is wrong with you, Crowley,_ Aziraphale thinks to himself while spicing up the tea with a dash of rum and a squeeze of lemon, _we have both seen so much worse._ He screws the lid back on the thermos and glares accusingly at the collection of trash cans under the sink for a while.

The faint sound of the shower running rouses him from his musings. Deciding that enough is enough indeed, and that he can’t stay in the overly clean and empty space of the kitchen any longer, Aziraphale makes a rash decision, marches up the hall to the bathroom door and knocks.

“Are you going to be long, now? Your tea's getting cold. Er. Well, metaphorically speaking. It's in a thermos. However, this ethereal being is getting awfully bored... Crowley?”

When there is no answer, he gives the door a scolding look, and it obediently swings open to reveal dampness and darkness. He flicks the lights on, and feels an uncharacteristic urge to say something like _dude,_ but that is demonic influence for you. Instead, however, he settles for a safe _good gracious._

Crowley is huddled up against the wall, under a never ceasing spray of near boiling water, as a tight, unmoving ball of limbs and dark hair. Aziraphale sighs and moves close, grabbing a towel along the way. He doesn't say anything, just turns the water off and wraps the towel around Crowley’s shoulders, crouching down inside the shower. He is slightly conscious of water seeping into his socks as he sweeps a bit of wet hair away from Crowley's forehead. A pair of yellow eyes stare right through him, seemingly into empty space.

The realisation that he is downright _lost_ inside Crowley’s emotional fortress hits him with the force of an asteroid. He had not meant to overstep this boundary, and is surprised to find that he did so _hours_ ago, when he picked up the phone at three in the morning and decided to come over, because he couldn’t bear the misery of Crowley’s drunk dialing.

He had expected to deal with drunk, sarcastic, miserable Crowley, or even flirtatious Crowley, and to think his own about upkeep of appearances and open books, not to be hauling this naked deadweight out of the shower, getting soaked in both water and conflicting emotions.

Crowley hardly even acknowledges his presence, he just turns his gaze downwards and repeats in a small and desperate voice, _“I can’t, I can’t, please don’t make me-”_

Aziraphale’s usual approach to depressed or despairing individuals would be a manifestation of his wings, a few glad tidings of great joy adjusted to the occasion, or, if pressed enough, the odd miracle. Not that he has dabbled significantly in individual spiritual guidance, mind you. Looking at the shivering mess currently curled up against him, though, he gets the suspicion that a traditional angelic approach will have no effect on Crowley.

With an effort, he drags him to his feet.

“Stand,” he commands. “Come, now. I'll put you back to bed.”

 

* * *

Crowley returns suddenly from a dreamless sleep. The feeling of clean silk sheets envelops his body. He becomes vaguely aware of someone stroking his hair, and a warm presence sitting beside him, and opens his eyes. An arm. A sweater. A book. _Right, then._

“You're awake,” the sweater observes.

“Hm,” he affirms. The hand keeps stroking him, ever so softly, it almost sends him back to oblivion. But he has to ask.

“What day'sit?”

“Tuesday.”

“Huh. I could've _sworn...”_

“You've been at it for a while, I should think. But you've only been asleep for a couple of hours.”

_Right._ _Binge drinking._ _What a catch I am._

“Why are you here?” he asks in a voice less nonchalant than he aimed for.

“I have been pondering the very same question, as a matter of fact,” says the sweater, and the body within it shifts, so the attached head comes down to his level. Aziraphale's eyes are very warm and very piercing. Crowley swallows.

“What've you come up with, then?”

“Well. First of all,” A smug smile flashes briefly across the angel's face. The hand pauses behind Crowley’s ear and the thumb traces the outline of his cheekbone, before diving back into his hair. “you positively begged me to come, during your, er, little bender.” For a moment, Crowley considers how his own hands would look around Aziraphale's throat. Then the smile vanishes. “Secondly, I stayed, because you were completely out of it. You would probably still be draining the water resources, if I hadn't.”

“Oh.”

“Thirdly, because I must _insist_ that we talk about this.”

The hand that has been fondling Crowley's hair comes to rest on the back of his head. Crowley looks away, unable to meet the burning brown eyes. The warm comfort that has been filling him up dissolves and is replaced by the icy sensation of dread, as if someone had dropped a bucket of ice on his head.

“I don't know what there's to talk about...” he whispers half-heartedly. He knows there will be no more running from this, whatever it is. His drunk self apparently decided to go against all common sense and spill the beans to Aziraphale, but didn't bother to actually have the conversation. _And then we decided to have a mental breakdown in front of him,_ his inside voice chants happily, and Crowley swears at it, loudly, and presses both hands to his eyes.

“Yes, I’m sure that it makes you uncomfortable. But I would like to remind you that you already _are_ uncomfortable to the point where I wouldn’t want to leave you alone with a sharp object. So I fail to see how talking to me could possibly make it worse. It might even make things better.”

Crowley groans. It is rare for Aziraphale to be this straight-forward, to take such an interest. It must be an angelic instinct. Crowley wouldn’t know about those, but he knows that Aziraphale rarely goes out of his way for anything at all, on account of him being a _bloody lazy bastard, that is._

“I’ve no idea why you care.”

“Now, the way I see it, there are two ways in which we can do this.” Aziraphale says, ignoring him and holding up two fingers. “We can, of course, get into a shouting match which eventually will lead to me leaving and you sitting around and sulking for the next 30 odd years, because, while we both may be a tad _stubborn,_ _I_ am perfectly reasonable, while _you_ are proud and hysterical,”

“I’m not –” Crowley tries to interrupt, but is abruptly cut short.

“Hell, your neighbours might not even mind the noise, it’s only just after dinner. _Or -_ ”

“Angel I –”

_“Please_ zip it, dear. _Or_ we figure out a way to return you to your usual embodiment of energy and endless nuisance. That would of course mean that you have to _do_ something.”

“Like _what?_ You think I haven't already tried to _do_ something?” With a great force of will, Crowley wrestles himself away from the simultaneously comforting and alarming nearness that has settled between them. Sitting up, he waves his hands around, gesticulating frantically in the hopes that the words he wants can be summoned out of thin air. “You think- ... You think I would-?”

“Hurt yourself?” Aziraphale finishes for him. “I should think that drinking for three days straight and then allowing yourself the hangover qualifies as self-harm, yes. And it wouldn’t be the first time you slept through a _bloody_ century to avoid facing the world, would it?”

“I enjoyed it,” Crowley grumbles while staring intently straight ahead. “It's not like I am going to actually _die_ anytime soon, and thus have wasted my precious years, is it? And since when did you find it in you to bloody interfere?”

Aziraphale looks up at him, and takes a deep, steadying breath. Once again, he counts to ten. The view is quite enjoyable: Crowley's bare skin, tight across the muscles and bones in his back, his dark hair, all messed up from the pillows and Aziraphale's handling, and still damp in places; his jaw, clenched, but so delicate...

Aziraphale pushes himself back up into a sitting position and reaches out to trace the shape of a shoulder blade with a curious finger.

“... Crowley. _You_ reached out to _me._ It is obvious that you’re, ah, unwell. What kind of angel would I be, if I just… left you to it? I'm morally obliged to help you, no matter how much it pains me.” He actually manages a tired, bored tone.

Crowley lets out a deep sigh, as Aziraphale's warm fingers caress his back.

“Well, if you put it that way...” he says, and leans back into the touch. “That’s alright, then. Could we just lie here for a bit, you think?”

_Call it lust, call it angelic duty, and never have pity on my soul,_ he does not say.

But Aziraphale knows anyway.

And Aziraphale, in turn, does not say, _I damn well loathed the 1850’s,_ though it is right there on his lips, but _saying_ it would be selfish. To be absolutely safe not to let it out, he presses them to Crowley’s shoulder and pulls him in properly.

He breathes deeply and thinks about mazes, and how it might not be easier for two people to find their way out than for one, but at least they can make jokes about it.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, you made it! Thank you for reading! Leave a comment and let me know what you think? (:  
> This fic is one of some losely connected scribblings I have lying around, all of which I've used to write away depressive periods by means of projecting them onto Crowley. Sorry, Crowls. I named the series Big D, because I'm funny like that. There might be more. 
> 
> Oh, and if you, dear reader, have your own run-ins with black dogs, big D's, or rough patches in life, take care of yourself and _talk about it._ I simply cannot stress that enough. All the best  <3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Black Dog (podfic)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13626978) by [darlingsweet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darlingsweet/pseuds/darlingsweet)




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